I’m signed up for a heated high-intensity interval training class this morning, but I let a different doctor tell me I “have to” have a period once in a while, so that’s also happening, and now I’m far more interested in lying on the floor and actually dying.
Aaand this is why the FIRST doctor told me to take the pill so I don’t menstruate. You don’t have to. I KNOW you don’t have to. I don’t know why I let her tell me otherwise, but I am never doing this bullshit again if I can help it.
Y’all.
I have a new eye doctor and he’s HOT and I wasn’t prepared for that because eye doctors are always 112 years old, so I didn’t even shower today and I’m not wearing makeup and I’m still half sick and he’s married so it doesn’t even matter but also HOT.
Also, I mean, I’m sure it’s possible he tells EVERY woman she has “lovely” eyelashes and that she’s funny, but…I get the sense that perhaps not. So I’m just gonna tuck that little nugget in my back pocket for future ego boosts.
See also: HAWT.
Y’all.
I am JUST in my regular doctor’s office, trying to get my sinuses un-fucked.
I wasn’t ready.
Around May, I noticed my jeans were getting tight, so I bought bigger jeans, but thought, “Oh, OK, wakeup call — I should lose some weight.”
Buuut I didn’t.
And then the bigger jeans started getting tight, and I thought, “NO. This is horseshit. I’m not spending MORE money — I’ll just lose some weight. For real this time.”
Buuut I didn’t.
So I bought the NEXT biggest size, and you know what? I am fucking COMFORTABLE. God, fat pants are the BEST. And the kinda stretchy fat pants with Spandex or whatever in ’em? DAMN. So good.
Screw it. The world is awful and cake is great.
(Ahem… This defiant attitude brought to you by the first time a doctor ever told me it might be good to lose some weight, which happened last week. But she based it on BMI, and BMI is fake news. Suck it, lady. #sheetcaking for the win.)
A+ art choices at my gyno office.
Not sure what it says about me that I wore a Wonder Woman t-shirt to my gyno appointment, but I’m amused by it either way.
Capping off an already splendid day, I have a cyst that won’t go away, so I’m on my way to the doctor just to be 100% sure I’m not dying. I’m ALMOST positive, but symptoms of lady cancer are, like, fatigue, upset stomach, and menstrual changes — so, you know, not at ALL vague things most women have.
I hate needing medical attention anywhere in my vagina’s orbit. My gyno and I have a once-yearly relationship and I’m pretty OK with that. I’m not really looking for anything next-level.
Plus the only available doctor is male, which makes me realize how long it’s been since I’ve had a man in the region. I’m all self-conscious about it and spiffed it up a bit, as if otherwise mine could possibly be the most offensive vagina he’ll see today.
Sage advice from a friend on the STI front: “You’re already going into this with your eyes open; now it’s just if your legs are open, too.”
I told the guy I couldn’t meet him until I got tested, with a remarkable number of apologetic qualifiers for telling a man that sex with him may not be worth the risk of going the rest of my life with a disclaimer on my vagina. (“Not a big deal” depends who you ask. I will ask a doctor and go from there.)
I said if he didn’t want to meet me, I’d understand, but he said HE understood and would meet me when I was ready. Later, he called me sexy, smart, and quick, so you can see why I’m trying so hard to ride this particular unicorn.
He’s actually so good on paper that I’m worried it’s a trap. Like, am I the only woman who didn’t immediately say “no” to this? How is he saying everything I need to hear? Is that instinct honed from years of practice on various conquests he’s humped and dumped? Is he, like, 70 years old? (He’s not, I stalked his Facebook. Don’t judge me, that’s HIS fault. There’s a reason MY personal account is locked down — all you get is photos of sunsets and the profile pic they make you leave public.)
But in the meantime, another friend sent me this article/podcast, should you wish to read/hear more on the matter.
My doctor recommended hippie sleeping pills made with, like, valerian root and unicorn meat, and I should write more often while they’re taking over my body, because Christballs, I’m BRILLIANT.
I mean, we’ll see how it looks in the morning, but at the moment I’m basically a slutty Chaucer.
I hear a lot of jokes about “girl code,” usually in regard to dating a friend’s ex or something.
Let me give you an example of the REAL girl code:
My doctor, a woman about my age, prescribed an antibiotic for the sinus infection that’s been beating my ass (seriously, please come tear my face off, and also bring pie). Without me asking, she said, “I’m also calling in a script for Diflucan. If you don’t need it, don’t fill it, but I don’t want you to have to bother calling us back and asking for it.”
I go pick up the antibiotic, along with a bottle of acidophilus. I tell the female pharmacist I’m not filling the Diflucan right now, that I’ll just leave that on standby for a rainy day in my vagina. She nods, notices the acidophilus, and tells me unprompted that cranberry extract supplements also help her prevent The Evil that Shall Not Be Named.
That’s your girl code. Good work, Girl Nation. My pH balanced lady garden thanks you.
Smug Singleton 